


Another Eden

by siriusblue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Artists, Assassination Attempt(s), Background Relationships, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Happy Ending, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, Friends to Lovers, Gardens & Gardening, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Illness, Musicians, Mutual Pining, Retirement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23780074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: After a life-changing event, Greg Lestrade retires from Scotland Yard and moves to a small market town on the south coast, far away from the stresses of London, policing and Sherlock Holmes. Finally free to pursue his life as an artist the rumour that nearby Musgrave Hall has a now-permanent resident doesn't bother Greg at all. Not until the day Mycroft Holmes walks into his art supplies shop and turns Greg's world upside down again, proving that age is just a number and miracles, sometimes, really do happen
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 157
Kudos: 197
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [egmon73](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egmon73/gifts).



> Written for Fandom Trumps Hate 2020 and for the eternally-patient Egmon73 who bid very generously to make this happen.

_ Another day. Another murder. Even though it was bitterly cold at the crime scene, Greg was sweating. Indigestion rumbled in his gut reminding him that microwaved chilli wasn't the healthiest of breakfasts. _

_ Then it hit him like a tsunami. Excruciating pain in his chest ripping down his left arm making him, for the first time since he was a probationary constable, contaminate the crime scene. _

_ He couldn't breathe. It was like trying to suck an elephant up through a straw. _

_ Then he was surrounded by people. His co-workers, his friends. Sally Donovan, her dark eyes full of worry, yelling into her mobile for an ambulance as Philip Anderson sat him down, his voice a soothing litany telling Greg to hold on. To just hold on and help would be there soon. Trying to speak but needing every erg of his energy to breathe. Just breathe. Blackness gathered at the edge of his vision as he heard the wailing sound of the ambulance siren. _

_ "They're here, Greg." said Philip reassuringly. "You're going to be fine." _

_ Then Philip was brushed aside by the paramedics and Greg felt a needle stinging his skin and a voice asking him questions he could not answer. Just needed to breathe. Just breathe. _

_ * _

_ Six Months Later _

  
  


Mycroft winced as the door to his office slammed shut, seriously imperilling the hinges. Sherlock stalked towards the desk, anger and upset warring in his eyes.

"This is intolerable!" Sherlock announced.

Mycroft sighed and put down the file he had been reading.

"What is, brother mine?"

"Lestrade is being put out to grass and you are prepared to just sit there and let it happen. Scotland Yard will never be the same. Dimmock and Donovan are two halves of a whole idiot without Lestrade and please don't get me started on the disaster that is Anderson."

Mycroft stood, trying desperately to hide just how proud he was of his baby brother for letting another person into his heart. Sherlock's concern for the DCI was that of a son for his father and Mycroft was moved. He also managed to avoid wincing as a spear of pain pierced his right hip.

"Chief Inspector Lestrade is retiring on medical advice, Sherlock. Though he has recovered well from his myocardial infarction…" 

Mostly due to the finest cardiologist and cardiothoracic surgeons in the country being paramount in his care once they had been briefed on the advantages of such a career decision. Not to mention the superlative care of those in the coronary care unit and others involved in Lestrade's rehabilitation. This of course would never be spoken of but there was little point in being the British Government if a chance to ruthlessly exploit the position wasn't grabbed with both hands.

"It was deemed that stress was a major contributing factor. Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade will retire with a full pension and benefits and will be free to pursue another, less stressful, career."

"He will die of boredom within six months." Sherlock predicted. "And your revolting romantic fantasies about him will never be fulfilled."

Years of schooling his expression made hiding his shock and indignation at Sherlock's perspicacity a simple thing.

"What utter rot you do speak, brother." sighed Mycroft, ignoring Sherlock's look of scorn.

"No one on this earth makes your expression soften the way it does when you speak to him. Your pupils dilate; your stance relaxes. Were I in a position to take your pulse, I would find it elevated. For someone who prides himself on having no human attachments, you are as transparent as glass when you are with Gavin."

"His name is  _ Gregory,  _ Sherlock." Mycroft replied, deadpan but Sherlock sighed mentally at the sub aural growl in his brother's voice. He didn't think even Mycroft was aware of how he reacted when Sherlock mangled the DCI's given name.

"Whatever," said Sherlock. "You will truly do nothing to stall this travesty?"

"No, brother, I will not. Gregory has a second chance at life and I will do nothing to interfere with that. Now if that is all, perhaps you will permit me to continue running the country."

Mycroft turned and failed to hide his grimace at another sharp stab of pain, something Sherlock was quick to pounce on.

"Your arthritis continues to plague you. Why have you not succumbed to your physician's bleating and gone under the knife? Surely someone somewhere has invented an artificial joint that will support your elephantine bulk?"

Mycroft sighed in defeat but he appreciated the quickly-hidden concern in his brother's eyes.

"Most amusing, brother dear. Now be off with you." Flapping his hands in a shooing motion only gained Mycroft an inelegant snort.

Seeing that he would get no further argument or satisfaction from Mycroft, Sherlock flounced out of his brother's office to trade insults with Anthea instead.

Mycroft carefully lowered himself into his office chair, indulging himself out loud with a number of choice phrases about his hip that would have made a sailor blush. He took a small key from the watch pocket of his waistcoat and unlocked a compartment in his desk. It was a shameful indulgence but one he allowed himself if the day had been particularly vexing, or he needed a sharp reminder of what potentially  _ could _ have been his if he were not so wedded to the concept of Queen and country.

Mycroft pulled out a nondescript file from the compartment and opened it, gazing at the contents. Every glossy surveillance photograph in the file was of Greg Lestrade, all taken in the course of his duties.

Mycroft had argued for an increase of surveillance when Lestrade had become involved with Sherlock, but there had been numerous benefits. A cordial relationship with the man in question being one of the finest. 

Mycroft reached out and trailed the tips of his long fingers over the photographic cheek of Lestrade whose expression was full of life and laughter, amused by something said by one of the others in the picture."

"Fare you well, my beloved Gregory." Mycroft whispered. "Fare you well."

*

_ Six Months Later _

The bar staff in the George and Dragon were well used to police parties and the associated mayhem but this one was positively bacchanalian compared to most.

A drooping banner emblazoned with 'GOOD LUCK, GREG!!!!' hung beside some sadly shrivelled balloons. A table on the far side of the room groaned under the weight of unwrapped gifts, most of which were artistic in nature; paints, canvases, exquisite brushes and so on. The Greg in question held court at another table flanked by Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson. He shook hands with the leavers, kissed a few and laughed at their old-man jokes but only the most observant would have noticed that his wonderful smile never quite reached his eyes.

"I still can't believe it," muttered Sally as she helped herself to another swig of her gin and tonic. "It's one thing to leave the Job, Greg, but leaving London? For Nowheresville? I'm sure they eat their young down there."

"Stop exaggerating, Sally." laughed Greg. "St. Martin's is a perfectly lovely town and it's only half an hour away. You can visit as much as you like."

Sally muttered darkly about mid-life crises but Greg ignored her.

One thing about a near-death experience was that you quickly realised your priorities. Scotland Yard would run along without him quite well, he figured. It was time to do something different with his life. Something meaningful. The sale of his tiny terraced house had made him enough to buy...well...somewhere he could indulge in his favourite hobby away from the pressures of London. Maybe even forge a different kind of personality instead of Greg the tired old copper. Truth was, he could hardly wait to start.

"That's where they have that art festival every year, isn't it? Thought it might be a bit Chelsea for you, Greg." Philip chimed in.

"Shut up, Philip. The day you can draw a recognisable stick figure is the day I'll take your opinion on art and artists seriously," said Greg with a grin. Anderson grinned back.

"What the hell are we going to do with Sherlock?" Sally wailed. "He was bad enough before but he'll be insufferable now."

"Just keep letting him in," advised Greg. "That should keep him happy and if he's too much of an arse, you can always get his brother to intervene."

As Sally and Philip verbally trashed the Holmes brothers, Greg considered Mycroft Holmes. If he had one regret, it was that he'd never see him again. A man as perfect as that would always be way out of his league but there was no law against dreaming. The best Greg could hope for was what he got; cordiality. The occasional brandy at The Diogenes, or a truly foul cup of hospital coffee as they waited for Sherlock to be saved yet again but there had been warmth. A rare smile or two. Maybe that was enough for Mycroft. Greg knew it was enough for him to hang a truly eye watering number of fantasies on but Mycroft Holmes would always be the one that would make him wonder. What if?

*

Anthea stood in front of Mycroft's desk, only the death grip on her BlackBerry betrayed her utter shock, yet she tried to make light of it.

"Sorry, sir. I must be having hearing problems. I thought you said you were retiring."

"You heard correctly, Anthea. My condition dictates that I can no longer put off having surgery if I wish to avoid permanent mobility issues. Also since the referendum result has proved, Britain no longer needs me."

He glared at her and she felt genuinely scared. Just briefly, but it was there all right.

"It needs a straitjacket. And some gentle soothing none of which is going to be supplied by whatever Oxbridge buffoon is elected to replace the architect of this farce. I have no wish to witness this first hand, my dear. No. The timing is perfect. I have already set the wheels in motion."

Which explained the subtle panic flavouring Whitehall at the moment, she thought. Mycroft Holmes was retiring. There was a very strong possibility that Armageddon was just around the corner.

TBC.


	2. Chapter Two

As Hugh set down the foaming pint of beer in front of Greg, he smiled.

"Cheers, Hugh. This is exactly what I need " sighed Greg, taking a deep draught of the beer.

"So, what do you reckon?" Hugh asked. Greg looked at his drinking companion over the rim of his glass.

Hugh Sinclair was a huge man with shoulders like a rugby fullback, blond hair and kind blue eyes. He was the local butcher who made the best sausages Greg had ever tasted. 

Ever since Greg had opened the Blue Lamp, Hugh had been there with advice and support, genuinely pleased that someone had taken over the old fishing tackle shop and was selling something that was going to bring in more tourists. Hugh also heartily approved of Greg's tiny gallery which displayed the work of local artists and was proving a hit with locals and visitors alike. Now he was trying to get Greg to join the local Chamber of Commerce.

"Yeah, I'm in." Greg replied with a smile. 

"Brilliant," said Hugh, looking relieved. "There's not much in the way of commitment. Just a meeting every other month and the Arts Festival. Any ideas you can come up with for that will be a big help."

"What do you normally do?" asked Greg.

"Bella and I run the food stall. Sausages, burgers, that kind of thing. It's amazing how hungry those arty-farty types can get." High replied with a twinkle in his eye.

Bella was his wife, as tiny as he was large and she ran the butcher's shop with ruthless efficiency and made pies that any gourmand in London would sell their mother for if they could only have one more slice. She was also exceptionally kind, especially to newcomers and she and Hugh had been the first friends Greg had made since moving there.

"So, excellent food and lovely art. Music?"

Hugh nodded and sipped at his pint.

"There's some folk music and occasionally we pull a big name but no chamber music this year, sadly."

"That's too bad," said Greg.

"We used to have a smashing string quartet till the cellist moved to Brighton. They've never been able to replace her. I don't suppose.. "

Greg giggled at the very notion.

"Not even close. I like music of all kinds. Just don't ask me to play it." He gestured to Hugh's empty glass. "Fancy another?" Hugh shook his head decisively.

"Another time, mate. It's Bella's darts night and she needs me to drop her off." Hugh got up and shook Greg's hand. "I'll be in touch about the next meeting soon. See you, Greg."

Greg considered having another beer and indulging in one of his favourite pastimes; people watching. There was the added bonus that someone would come and chat to him, the St Martin's locals were incredibly friendly and had taken the ex-copper to their collective bosom but he decided against it. 

He had promised his cardiologist to cut down or give up on the booze and he was. Tonight had been a bit of a treat for him.

He left the Old Ship and crossed the market place to the Blue Lamp. It hadn't been too long so he still got a bit of a thrill seeing the handsome shop front painted in navy with its name picked out in cream. Greg unlocked the door, silenced the burglar alarm and finished tidying up from that day's business, a chore he'd been busy with when Hugh had dropped in.

Greg made a note of what he needed to order from the wholesalers in order to restock and smiled at how big the order actually was. He would have never believed that the business would take off like it did, but it delighted him.

With everything squared away, Greg reset the alarm and climbed the stairs to the flat above the shop where he now lived. He put some milk in a pan to heat and once it was done, sat down contentedly in front of the telly with a mug of cocoa to watch  _ Downton Abbey. _

No chance of getting disturbed or interrupted any more. No more phone calls in the middle of the night about a body. If there was crime going on it was someone else's problem. Life is good, Greg thought.

*

Mycroft woke and stretched luxuriously. It hadn't been that long since he had been able to dispense with the T-bar in his bed and the walking frame at his side, so he appreciated being able to sleep unencumbered and being able to trundle around Musgrave Hall with the mere addition of one of his father's more handsome walking sticks.

He had adhered religiously to the surgeons instructions and that of his physiotherapist and was making excellent progress. Musgrave had proved to be the haven he had needed to rest and to heal following his hip replacement.

The woman, a Mrs Jones who had kept Musgrave in a habitable state in the years since his parents' passing, had been more than happy to remain as his housekeeper given that it meant a steep increase in salary and not much in the way of additional duties apart from the occasional load of laundry. The local shops; butcher, greengrocer and baker were most accommodating in delivering his few grocery wants and there were a brace of excellent restaurants in town who supplied delectable take away food.

Mycroft rarely regretted his decision to retire but he wished sometimes for enough influence to ensure a knighthood for the town butcher for he had never tasted such fine sausages. They were positively ambrosial.

Mycroft carefully got out of bed and made his way to the bathroom, smirking at his reflection as he cleaned his teeth. Growing a beard had made a lot of sense when he couldn't stay on his feet for long and now he found he rather liked it. It certainly saved time in the mornings. Ablutions done, he dressed in comfortable trousers and a warm cashmere jumper, then went in search of breakfast.

Mrs Jones placed a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him as he stirred sugar into his tea.

"Thank you," Mycroft said sincerely.

"I'm going into town shortly, Mr Holmes. Perhaps you might like to venture out a bit today? Sun's shining and you'll fit in the car just fine."

There was... _ tone  _ in that question. Yes, he hadn't been outside since he got there and no, he didn't think spending all day in his pyjamas watching Doctor Who was a wasted day. Mycroft Holmes as the British Government might have but Mycroft Holmes, private citizen, most certainly did not.

However it had been many years since he had visited St Michael's in any capacity. He felt mildly curious as to what might have changed. At least it would give him a chance to visit the butcher and see if the man or woman actually possessed wings and a halo.

"Very well. Is there still a music shop in town? I find myself in need of rosin."

"Yeah, old Daniel is still going strong." Her face took on a timorous expression. "It's been lovely to hear music in the house again, Mr Holmes. I adore the cello."

Mycroft was startled.

"Well, I'm certainly no Yo-Yo Ma, but I'm competent. That is also kind of you to say. I'm sure my parents had visions of having a string quartet but it wasn't to be, not with just two of us."

She merely shrugged and said.

"We'll set off once you're finished, if that suits."

"Perfectly," agreed Mycroft and set to tackling his bacon with gusto.

Mycroft walked slowly through the streets of the small market town and was, yet again, grateful that he'd decided to return to Musgrave especially with this jewel practically on his doorstep. In truth it hadn't changed much. Most of the businesses were still proudly family owned and were an eclectic mix of the practical and the whimsical.

He found the music shop precisely where he remembered and bought a goodly quantity of rosin and a new set of strings.

"Excuse me for asking," said the young woman behind the counter "but are you local? It's just that the town string quartet is desperate for a cellist."

Mycroft demurred but she wasn't put off. She thrust a flyer into his hand saying "At least think about it, sir. The Arts Festival won't be the same without them."

"I will consider it," said Mycroft, backing out of the shop and realising he'd used the tone normally reserved for soothing the nerves of fractious heads of state."Goodbye and thank you."

He didn't read the flyer but he didn't throw it away either, he tucked it in his pocket for later consideration.

He emerged from the butchers with a pound of pork and black pudding sausages and a wedge of game pie. No haloes in sight, just two hard-working people who were obviously happily married judging by their good-natured abuse of each other.

Just up the street was a shop Mycroft didn't remember from previous visits. The outside was freshly painted and the windows were clean. Judging from the display it was some kind of art shop. Intrigued, Mycroft opened the door and smiled as the doorbell tinkled.

It was indeed an art shop cum gallery cum workspace. A half finished seascape sat on an easel and Mycroft took a moment to admire the delicacy of the brush work and the bold use of colour.

"Sorry about that, sir. Just getting a delivery. Now how can I…"

That voice. It couldn't be. Mycroft turned and the carrier bag from the butcher slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

Greg Lestrade. In jeans and a paint-spattered smock looking every bit as shocked as Mycroft felt.

"Fucking hell! Mycroft Holmes!"

"Hello, Gregory. What on earth are you doing here?" 

TBC


	3. Chapter Three

Greg literally could not believe his eyes. Mycroft Holmes. Here. In his shop. Looking…honestly looking bloody fantastic. Then his brain came back from drooling and coughed politely. Mycroft had asked a question and Greg was never discourteous on purpose.

"This is my shop. I live here now."

"Ah, I see."

Surprise in those aquamarine eyes, not something Greg had seen very often, or ever if the truth be told.

"Thought you would have known that," said Greg, wiping his hands on the smock. "With you actually running the country and all." Greg glanced out of the shop window but there was no large black saloon idling at the kerb and Mycroft looked the most dressed-down Greg had ever seen him. His policeman's antenna had begun to twitch. There was more to this than met the eye.

"I'm afraid that part of my life is behind me now, Gregory." Mycroft said. "I retired some time ago and returned to the family estate which, coincidentally, is just outside of town. I had no idea this was where you ended up. Sherlock was terribly unforthcoming about where you had gone and I'm afraid I had other matters on my mind at the time. When I enquired of him some time after my surgery, he claimed to have deleted it."

"Surgery?" Greg hated how concerned he sounded but the warm light in Mycroft's eyes made up for it.

"Sadly, yes. Hip replacement."

"That explains the walking stick," replied Greg. "Tell you what, come and sit down. I'll get the kettle on and we can catch up a bit."

Greg's brain caught up with his mouth at that point and he became flustered. This was Mycroft Holmes. You didn't ask a man like that to join you in your cubbyhole stockroom for a mug of powdered instant, did you?

"I mean if you're not busy. Probably are, even if you're not being the government any more. Let me pick that bag up for you and…"

Mycroft caught Greg's wrist as Greg leaned over and gently squeezed it.

"I'm not an invalid, Gregory," said Mycroft with a shy smile. "And a cup of tea and a sit down sounds most pleasant. It will be lovely to talk to you without other matters continually pressing on us."

Greg smiled and beckoned Mycroft to follow him which Mycroft did eagerly, giving thanks to whatever deity had seen fit to bestow this blessing on him. Gregory Lestrade was here. Actually here. Looking fit and well and seemingly making a contented life for himself. Only a fool would pass up a chance like this and Mycroft Holmes was no one's fool.

Greg's office/stockroom was fairly small but there was room enough for two and Mycroft watched as Greg went through the tea or coffee/milk and sugar ritual till they were both sat with steaming mugs in their hands, Greg perched precariously on a stool as Mycroft sat in the only chair.

"I never knew you painted," remarked Mycroft. "You have a great deal of talent."

Greg felt himself blush at the compliment.

"Thanks. That's what my degree was in, if you were wondering. Nothing to do with policing. Now I get the chance to make a living out of it. I couldn't be happier. Now that you've healed up, will you go back to work?" Greg asked.

"Perish the thought. Britain is going to be an uncomfortable place to live for a while. Trust me when I say that I want no part of it at any level."

"Yeah, I can understand that. I sure as hell didn't vote to leave. I remember, just, when we voted to join the Common Market. So what are you going to do with yourself?"

Mycroft blinked. He wasn't sure he could answer that with any degree of clarity.

"I'm...not sure. There will be some worthy cause that will present itself at some point I am certain. Until then, I shall devote myself to all the leisure pursuits I never had time for previously."

Greg grinned at the truly lovely light in Mycroft's eyes.

"Reading?"

"Certainly. And voraciously. With no interruptions. Bliss."

Greg laughed and shook his head.

"Oh yeah. Did a lot of that in hospital and afterwards. And watching crap telly. Then streaming the box sets your mates told you were brilliant and turned out to be tripe."

"I also have been indulging. Though I will not have you insult Doctor Who."

There was a teasing smile on Mycroft's face and Greg felt a congenial warmth spread through him. If they'd had a chance to chat like that in their previous lives, who knows where it might have led?

"Never," proclaimed Greg. "That would probably get me beheaded. Besides I love it. Classic or New Who?"

"I must admit to a fondness for the Jon Pertwee era. He was, after all,  _ my  _ Doctor but the new ones, Messrs Ecclestone, Tennant and Smith are superb." Mycroft admitted.

"What about Peter Capaldi?" Greg asked.

"I'm not quite there yet," Mycroft confessed. "However, I find that the time melts away when engrossed in a programme."

"True. So how is Sherlock these days? Still making everyone's life a misery? Including John's?"

Mycroft's dramatic eye roll answered Greg's question and he giggled, a sound Mycroft found enchanting.

"Poor Sally. Not to mention Dimmock and the rest. Funny, I miss the lad even though he drove me to drink more times than enough."

"He will be delighted to hear it. I am expecting a visit from him, whenever the good doctor can prise him away from his experiments."

"Bring him round so he can deduce everything about me and the shop."

"I shall. Believe me, Gregory, he will be delighted to find you so well and happy, naturally he will disguise it with his usual vitriol, but it will be there nevertheless."

In the shop a bell sounded and Greg got to his feet.

"Got a customer. Er…"

Mycroft smiled and said,

"Don't worry, Gregory. I'm very comfortable here and I'd very much like to continue our conversation."

Greg smiled and went out to serve his customer. Dan was a regular; an artist who lived on the edge of a cliff and painted seabirds. His paintings sold by the truckload, so Greg was always happy to see him as the man only worked with the finest oils and premium canvas. With Dan restocked and sent away happy, Greg returned to his guest.

His guest was frowning. That didn't bode well.

"What's wrong?" Greg asked. Mycroft grimaced.

"My housekeeper has just texted me to say that she's heading back to Musgrave. If I want a lift back, I'd better go with her."

Greg took comfort from the fact that Mycroft looked genuinely annoyed at the interruption.

"I should be cleared to drive within the next week or two," Mycroft went on. "It pains me to be reliant on others for my transport."

"Yeah, I completely understand." Greg said.

"Perhaps we could continue this another time?" Mycroft asked. "I believe the pubs around here can be pleasant places for a convivial drink. Would you...would you like to join me one evening?"

Mycroft thought he had overstepped the mark as Greg's mouth dropped open and he stuttered.

"You...me...drinks?"

"Yes. Of course if you don't want to, I get it."

"No! It's just...you're asking me out?"

Mycroft's heart returned to something approaching a normal rhythm as he realised he wasn't being rejected.

"Yes, Gregory. If you'd like to. I have long admired you, you know. However it would have been foolish, nay, dangerous for me to show even the slightest hint of interest in you. I gained many enemies in my working life and the thought of any of them using you to gain leverage or to cause you pain in order to hurt me was utterly abhorrent to me. There are no such obstacles now, however. So, will you?"

Greg felt a pang as he gazed at the pink-cheeked man in front of him. His life must have been utterly devoid of any tenderness or affection, the shallowest of existences. If Greg could have any say in it, that would end now.

"I'd love to," Greg said, firmly. "How about tomorrow night? The White Swan does some lovely food and they have a pretty good wine list. Shall we say seven o'clock?"

"Perfect," said Mycroft, deeply relieved. "Let me give you my number and if anything changes you can ring me."

He pulled the crumpled flyer out of his pocket and wrote down his mobile number, handing it to Greg.

Greg glanced at the flyer and said.

"Hugh was on about this last night."

"Hugh?" Mycroft claimed the twinge he felt as indigestion, not jealousy.

"The butcher," replied Greg, gesturing to Mycroft's carrier bag. "Do you play the cello?"

"Passably," Mycroft admitted. Greg tapped the flyer thoughtfully and tore off the piece with Mycroft's number.

"You should ring them. I know most of them. Fazil is a retired GP, Margaret is a librarian and Andrew is a policeman. Sensible, ordinary folk, even if they are mad for chamber music."

"I could hardly fail to do so with such a ringing endorsement," said Mycroft with a grin. "I shall ring tonight. Until tomorrow, Gregory."

"Yeah. I'm really looking forward to it," admitted Greg.

The strident sound of a car horn outside made both of them laugh.

"I must go. See you tomorrow."

"Bye," said Greg, stepping out of the stockroom so he could watch the tall elegant figure fold itself into a Fiat 500 and speed away.

He had a date with Mycroft Holmes tomorrow. That was  _ definitely  _ one for the diary. Once the shop was shut it was time to raid his wardrobe and see if he possessed any date worthy clothes. He suspected not but not knowing was half the fun…

  
  


TBC

  
  



	4. Chapter Four

Mycroft dialled the number on the flyer once he was home and Mrs Jones was busy elsewhere. It rang twice then a male voice answered.

"Yello?" 

Fairly young, Mycroft deduced. Also vaguely tired. Mycroft hoped that he hadn't woken him up. This was clearly a personal mobile judging by the informality of how it was answered. A practical man, then. One who could compartmentalise his life. 

"Good evening. My name is Mycroft Holmes. I was given a flyer in the town music shop…"

"Mr Holmes," interrupted the voice."Tell me you play the cello and I'll give you the soul of my firstborn."

"Most amusing. I  _ do  _ as it happens. I believe you are in need of a cellist for your string quartet?"

"Yeah, we are. Sorry, I should introduce myself. Andrew Gardener. I play the viola but the quartet is sort of my baby."

"I have recently retired, Mr Gardener, and am looking to further my interests so I would be free to audition at your convenience."

Mycroft could almost hear the younger, possibly, man smile.

"That's fantastic. How about tomorrow night?"

"Unfortunately I have a previous engagement tomorrow."

I am not renegotiating something that has been my fondest dream for many a lonely year, young man, so tread carefully.

"Actually, yeah, tomorrow might be a bit premature. I'm coming off nights and I'd only be half-awake. Plus I need to tell the others. They'll be thrilled to meet you, Mr Holmes. Can I take your number so I can ring you and let you know when and where?"

Mycroft rattled off his mobile number which Andrew repeated back to him flawlessly and Mycroft couldn't help but smile at the barely-concealed glee in the other man's voice.

"I look forward to hearing from you, Mr Gardener. Do enjoy the rest of your evening," said Mycroft courteously and ended the call.

Gregory would be very pleased with him for taking the first steps at moving on with his life and tomorrow night Mycroft could get the lowdown on the rest of the merry band. He knew that Gregory would have thoroughly sussed them out already and Mycroft was never one to waste an advantage.

*

No, Greg wasn't remotely nervous, even though he had rearranged the condiments on the table half a dozen times and his left leg had developed a twitch. He checked his mobile again. No messages. 

  
  


*

Mycroft was quietly seething in the passenger seat of Mrs Jones' car. He was going to be three minutes late for his evening with Gregory which was utterly unacceptable. However he kept that to himself as he wouldn't put it past her to make him get out and walk. Also she had generously agreed to drop him off at the White Swan on her way home to save him shelling out for a taxi both ways.

  
  


"There you are, Mr Holmes. Not too late, I hope. Just blame me. Greg's a nice bloke, he'll understand." 

The fiendish woman was grinning. Grinning! No doubt she would want every sordid detail the next time he saw her.

Which implied she thought there would be sordid details to share. Which would be disrespectful to Gregory. Or would it? Not having dated anyone since the last Ice Age had Mycroft slightly muddled on the proper etiquette.

A polite cough from his still-grinning housekeeper reminded him he actually had to  _ leave  _ the car so that would be details, sordid or otherwise, to share. He nodded his thanks and hurried, as fast as he could, to the White Swan.

*

Greg breathed a heavy sigh of relief when a familiar figure walked through the door and looked eagerly around for him. Greg waved and grinned a bit at Mycroft's obvious relief.

"Good evening, Gregory. Please excuse my tardiness," said Mycroft as he sat at the table. Greg smiled.

"You're only five minutes late, Mycroft. It's not the end of the world. Can I just say, you look incredible tonight?"

Mycroft blushed and whatever tirade he had been about to embark on flew straight out of his head in the face of Greg's obvious admiration.

"That's very kind of you to say, Gregory. And might I return the compliment?"

"You may. That shade of lilac really brings out the colour of your eyes "

"I swore on the day I retired to eschew all sombre colours. Now that I do not have a certain image to portray I can wear what I wish."

"It's working marvelously," smiled Greg. He handed the menu to Mycroft. "Have a look at that and see if you can decide what you want to eat while I get you a drink. What's your poison?"

"Gin and tonic, please." Mycroft replied, taking a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and popping them on his nose.

Greg went to the bar and returned with Mycroft's drink and a pint of real ale for himself.

"Decided yet?" Greg asked. "Everything on that menu is first-class, I guarantee it."

"I believe I will have the steak pie," said Mycroft.

"Great choice. I'll put the order in at the bar. Don't wander off."

Mycroft took the time to watch Greg walk to the bar, admiring his physique and how the deep red of the jumper he was wearing complimented his colouring. No hint there of a frenzied rifling through his wardrobe to find something that was not either (a) bland beyond relief or (b) vomit-inducing. It had been a close thing but Greg's obvious appreciation had made the effort worthwhile. And wasn't that a glorious smile the man was sporting as he returned?

"Shouldn't be too long," said Greg as he reclaimed his seat. "I honestly can't believe this is happening, Mycroft. That you're here, on a date with me. I had to pinch myself a time or two to make sure it wasn't a very vivid dream, you walking into my shop like that."

"I had similar feelings," Mycroft confessed. "That my dearest wish should come true, that you of all people should end up living here and be willing to take a chance on me after longing for you for what feels like an eternity."

Greg took one of Mycroft's slender hands in his and his smile became positively wicked.

"Now that I know I won't get arrested for treason or something for asking you out, why don't we see how it goes, eh? See if two old farts with a hell of a lot of baggage between them can find some happiness after what's happened to both of us."

"I find that a very equitable suggestion, Gregory." said Mycroft with a smile and a squeeze of Greg's hand that held the promise of further delights to come.

*

Mycroft had been to banquets presided over by kings and had been courted by foreign officials in Michelin-starred restaurants but he could never remember enjoying a meal as much as the one he was eating now with buttery-light pastry, beef that melted in the mouth, chips cooked exactly as he liked them and lashings of exquisite gravy. Of course a lot had to do with the man sitting opposite and laying waste to a plate of salmon and sautéed vegetables.

"You were right, Gregory." Mycroft said as he looked mournfully at his empty plate. "That was delectable."

"Told you," grinned Greg, putting down his knife and fork. "Can I tempt you to a pudding?"

"I could be persuaded," admitted Mycroft, brightening even more at the thought.

*

It wasn't until the barmaid called last orders that both men realised just how quickly the night had passed in simple conversation and genuine enjoyment of the other's company. 

Mycroft had been right that Greg would be thrilled about him making contact with the quartet and gained some useful information about the others, not least that Andrew Gardener was a police officer.

Mycroft called for a taxi while Greg used the bathroom. Mycroft leaned heavily on his stick as they left the pub and Greg decided to be bold, slipping his hand into Mycroft's free one.

"Thank you for a spectacular evening, Gregory. I can't remember having a nicer time." Mycroft said.

"I'm glad," replied Greg. "So you wouldn't say no to a second date?"

"I would very much like that. Perhaps...perhaps you might like to come to Musgrave for the evening? I could cook for you, something heart healthy I promise, then perhaps some wine and a film? I have a rather nice set-up for watching TV "

"Oh yeah, that sounds brilliant. I'd love to see where you live."

"Excellent. I shall ring you and we can craft a plan, though Friday or Saturday may be more to your liking now that you are a man of commerce."

Greg absolutely adored the tiny peek of tongue between Mycroft's lips as he said that. Cheeky bugger.

"Yeah, that's me. Can't all afford to be men of leisure so there. Seriously, Mycroft. Anytime I get to spend with you will be good. Besides, you'll have your audition to tell me about, won't you?"

"Yes indeed. Something else for me to regale you with when next we meet."

The sound of a car horn made both men turn.

"Ah, my taxi is here." Mycroft bit his lip. He didn't want tonight to end. "May I kiss you?" he asked, his heart pounding but Greg's wonderful smile laid his fears to rest.

"You may," replied Greg, leaning in and brushing his lips against Mycroft's. It was the lightest and sweetest of kisses but both men felt it to their core.

"See you soon, Mycroft." Greg said, reluctantly letting go of Mycroft's hand.

"Indeed you will, Gregory. Just as soon as we can arrange it."

Greg watched Mycroft get into the taxi and drive away before heading back to the shop and his flat above it.

As he cleaned his teeth before bed, he grinned at his reflection in the mirror.

"You lucky bastard." he muttered.

TBC

  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who loves this story and who has commented. If I haven't replied to you yet, rest assured I will.

_ Some Weeks Later. _

  
  
  


Greg sat at his easel, hand on chin, and watched the string quartet play. 

He should have been sketching but he was having difficulty keeping his eyes off Mycroft who sat on the edge of his seat, left leg outstretched, his long fingers moving nimbly over the neck of the cello, his eyes closed with the sheer beauty of the music they were creating.

In all the time Greg had known him, he didn't think he'd ever seen Mycroft so relaxed or full of joy. He was a true inspiration and Greg's fingers found the pencil and began drawing again. 

They were certainly an unusual quartet; tall, elegant Mycroft, short, dapper Fazil on violin, his hair greyer than Greg's, Margaret on second violin, a plump, jolly soul who radiated happiness and finally Andrew who had to be closer to seven feet than six and was built like a rugby fullback. The viola bow looked almost like a toothpick in his massive hands yet he was producing beautiful sounds from it. They all were. 

Greg wasn't normally one for classical music but the four of them were making Schubert almost ecstatic listening and when the movement came to an end, Greg found himself applauding wildly.

Margaret curtsied laughingly as the others stood up from their chairs and stretched. It had been quite a long practice and they were ready for a break.

They clustered around Greg who was happy to show off his preliminary sketches. Margaret picked up the one of her and looked at Greg with something akin to awe.

"I knew you were talented, Greg, but these are incredible." She pushed the curling brown hair out of her eyes and looked closer. "God, I look so intense. Almost like a pro. What will you do with these?"

"They're just rough ideas. I might do a series of portraits, with everyone's permission of course, or just one of the whole quartet."

"Well, Sir, Mycroft would look great as Madame Suggia." Andrew suggested while the other two looked blank.

"Wrong, Newly-Appointed Sergeant. Mycroft would look  _ incredible  _ as Madame Suggia." Greg said with a possessive squeeze of Mycroft's hand. "And don't call me 'Sir' Andrew. I'm not a DCI any more. Plain Greg will do."

Andrew didn't look convinced and Greg sighed mentally.

"I do look very fetching in crimson," said Mycroft, a teasing light in his eyes. 

While Andrew explained, with freshly-Googled pictures, who Madame Suggia was and everyone joined in with some good-natured remarks, Greg marvelled at how relaxed Mycroft had become since retiring. No way would the Mycroft of old have allowed himself to be teased like that. They'd all have been subject to extreme rendition. Or been scrutinised at a molecular level by Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs. They certainly wouldn't have been invited into the kitchen for a meal.

Mycroft's kitchen had been where he and Greg had shared a number of memorable dinners over the past few weeks. Mycroft had, to Greg's surprise, turned out to be an incredible cook and judging from the savoury smells wafting from the Aga in the corner, Greg was about to witness another triumph.

Greg and Andrew set the kitchen table while Fazil uncorked a bottle of Merlot and Mycroft washed his hands before rolling up his sleeves and examining the contents of the large pots on the stove.

"This is ready," he announced. "I'll just put it into serving dishes and everyone can help themselves. Since the majority are vegetarian, I've used soya mince. Sit, please."

They did as they were bid while Mycroft placed a huge dish of chilli on the table followed by a pot of fluffy white rice. Warm tortillas were also put on the table alongside homemade salsa.

Mycroft sat down and gestured to everyone to help themselves. There was silence for a while as everyone loaded their plates and started eating. Greg really wasn't one for vegetarian food but this was exquisite with just the right amount of heat and he marvelled again at another revealed layer of Mycroft Holmes.

"This is incredible, Mycroft." Margaret enthused. "You must let me have the recipe. Richard will love it."

"Of course. The skill is in the blending of the spices and the freshness of the other ingredients. I shall print out a copy of the recipe for you to take home with my compliments."

"Us too!" Andrew and Fazil chorused indignantly, not wanting to be left out. Mycroft smiled and toasted them with his wine glass.

Some time later, with three-quarters of the quartet sent away well-fed and happy, Greg relaxed on the sofa in Mycroft's arms, his head on Mycroft's chest listening to the slow thud of Mycroft's heart as they watched the end of  _ The Shawshank Redemption. _

Mycroft had admitted to Greg that he had missed out a lot on popular culture during his time in the government and Greg took it upon himself to remedy that.

It had been Greg's pleasure to introduce Mycroft to films and TV programmes that the man had never seen before and sit back to watch his reaction which varied from withering scorn ( _ Titanic ) _ to heartfelt sobbing at the end. ( _ The Green Mile)  _ and all flavour of emotion in between.

As the film ended and Greg wiped his eyes, as he did every time he watched it, Mycroft disentangled himself with a smile.

"Wonderful film and a truly great ending. Excellent choice, Gregory."

"Thanks. I really love that film." Greg looked at his watch and grimaced. "I should get moving." he added.

Mycroft took him in his arms and kissed him softly.

"Do you really want to go?" Mycroft asked.

Greg shook his head but his reply was rueful.

"No. what I really want is to take you to bed. I know we promised not to rush into anything, Mycroft, but we're not getting any younger and I know you want this as much as I do."

"I do," Mycroft agreed. "It would be one of my dearest fantasies made flesh. However we must be sure you will be safe "

Greg let an utterly filthy grin spread over his face.

"One of your dearest fantasies? Really? Do go on, Mr Holmes. Details are important. Enquiring minds want to know."

Greg's grin turned tender as he saw the blush staining Mycroft's fair skin. Blush or no, Mycroft tightened his arms around Greg and kissed him again, quickly turning up the heat that left both men breathless.

"More of this. Unlimited kissing of your exquisite skin. My tongue and hands caressing every part of you until you are so hard you can barely stand it. I want you on your knees, sweating, pleading with me for release and I want to take my time granting it." said Mycroft, his voice a honeyed purr.

"Christ!" Greg exclaimed, biting his lower lip. "Serves me right for asking. Just as well my appointment is tomorrow because that needs to happen just as soon as humanly possible."

"I agree." Mycroft replied. "Better go, my dearest, before we do something we might regret."

"Yeah, that's probably best. I'll ring you tomorrow afterwards, okay?"

"Very much okay," agreed Mycroft as they walked to the front door. "I look forward to hearing from you. Goodnight, Gregory."

"Goodnight."

*

Greg sat in the waiting area of the hospital and tried to concentrate on the magazine he had brought with him but it was useless. He fidgeted as one person after another was called into one of the examination rooms, desperate for it to be over.

He hated hospitals at the best of times but knew this was a necessary evil. He checked his watch for the umpteenth time; five minutes past his appointment time. He picked up the magazine again and tried to concentrate.

"Mr Lestrade?"

Greg looked up to find one of the clinic nurses smiling at him.

"Dr Marshall will see you now."

Greg let himself be ushered in to the exam room where he was told to take a seat and was left alone. 

The connecting door opened and Dr Marshall came in, looking flustered. Her long auburn hair was making a spirited attempt to escape its ponytail and her white coat needed ironed but her face had a look of tiredness and kindness in equal measure.

"Hello, Greg. Sorry for the wait, we're running a bit behind this morning."

Greg felt himself smile for the first time that morning. He was very fond of her and found her extremely easy to talk to.

"It's okay, don't worry about it."

She sat behind the desk and sighed with relief.

"Nice to be sitting down for a bit. So, Greg. How are you?"

"I'm great. Business is really taking off. Living by the seaside is brilliant, I should have done it years ago."

She fired up the computer as he was talking and clattered at the keys.

"And you're painting again."

That wasn't a question. Greg looked startled.

"Is that in my records?"

Dr Marshall let out a hearty laugh.

"Hardly. The dab of Hookers Green on your ear is a bit of a giveaway."

"Oh. Right. Funny how you always want to scratch at the most inconvenient times. I had a spare half hour before the train so...actually, never mind."

"Well, your bloodwork is impressive. Everything functioning normally for someone your age. Are you exercising?"

"Yeah. A bit. Bit of running, bit of walking football in the season. Plus the shop keeps me going."

"Good. Anything you need to ask me about?"

"Actually, yes."

She looked surprised at that.

"Go on."

"Sex."

"Can you be a bit more specific?"

Greg looked at his hands but quickly realised being a chicken would in no way help him to get naked and sweaty with Mycroft.

"Yeah, okay. That was terrible, even for me. Thing is, I've got someone very special and things are warming up nicely. I just need to know it's safe for me to have sex with him. I don't want to have another heart attack when we're er…" Greg trailed off miserably.

Dr Marshall smiled to herself. She had hoped someone would snatch up the lonely ex-policeman and was delighted someone had. She called up the results of Greg's latest round of tests and tried to reassure him.

"It's okay to be worried, Greg. It's perfectly natural. You don't get out of breath exercising, do you?"

"Just a bit if I've run too far. Nothing like I used to get before I packed the fags in."

"But you can climb two flights of stairs without getting breathless?"

"Oh, yeah. I do that two or three times a day anyway."

"No pain or discomfort in your chest?"

"No. Not once since I left the hospital."

"Good. Excellent. Well, your cholesterol is great as well, so I'd say you're good to go. Obviously if you  _ do  _ get any pain please come back and see me but I honestly don't foresee any problems with you having a sexual relationship."

And don't you just look delighted at that prospect, Greg. Your bloke, whoever he is, must be really something.

"Thank you, Doctor. That's a big weight off my mind."

"Happy to help. I'll see you in another six months, Greg unless there are any issues before that, okay?"

"Sure. I'll make an appointment on the way out. Thanks again. I really mean it." Greg was almost babbling at how relieved he was. He must phone Mycroft as soon as he could.

Outside the hospital building, Greg took out his phone and made a call.

"Hello, gorgeous." Greg said when it was answered. "Just got the all-clear for some fun and games so make sure you're stocked up on condoms and lube."

"Gregory." Greg's heart sank. Mycroft sounded odd, almost constrained. "That is very good news, my dear. However, there's a problem."

"Shit. What?"

"Not on the phone. Get in the car that should be pulling up beside you about now. We'll talk when you get here." The call disconnected.

A large black sedan drew up outside the hospital entrance and the driver got out. Greg recognised him as Mycroft's former driver and Greg got in the back with a heavy sigh.

Mycroft had some explaining to do…

  
  
  


TBC

  
  



	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it was supposed to be six chapters but this is far from over...

_ The Same Day - Musgrave Hall. _

  
  
  


Mycroft spread the mulch around the rosebeds and paused to wipe a trickle of sweat from the end of his nose. Today was particularly warm and absolutely perfect for gardening.

It was ironic, he thought to himself, how Mummy had always been the gardener of the family with a particularly green thumb yet she had never been successful with roses. That had always been Father's department and the glorious displays of scent and colour in the grounds of Musgrave were of particular satisfaction to Mr Holmes Senior. Now Mycroft employed someone for the other parts of the gardens but found to his delight that an affinity with roses was yet another thing Father had passed on to him.

He had taken great pleasure in showing Gregory around the grounds fairly early in their blossoming relationship and Gregory had been awestruck by their beauty and begged to be allowed to return with his oils and easel, something Mycroft was only too happy to allow.

Warm thoughts of his Gregory made the smile on Mycroft's face widen and turn a touch lascivious. Today was Gregory's appointment with his cardiologist and, if all went well, tonight would find both of them sharing a bed and the pleasure of each other's bodies. If that thought didn't make his blood boil, Mycroft would truly live up to his Iceman nickname. 

Mycroft checked his watch. Greg had promised to phone as soon as it was over and it was still a bit early but a little wishing never hurt anyone, did it?

"Mr Holmes!" His housekeeper was hurrying across the lawn in the direction of the rose garden. "You've got visitors " she panted, slightly out of breath from running. So, distinguished visitors then for she would not have gone all out for the delivery man.

"Bother," Mycroft pouted. "I don't want to see  _ anyone.  _ Least of all today," he continued, giving her his best glare. It clearly needed work as she folded her arms and looked unimpressed.

"They're not the type of people to say no to."

"Ah.  _ Those  _ kinds of visitors. Very well. I had better see what they want."

*

Anthea had never visited Musgrave Hall in all her time working for Mycroft though he spoke of it occasionally, usually in the context of some parental faux pas. Looking around the sumptuously decorated room, with its thick curtains and carpets you could lose a cat in, she had to admit that it suited him. Rich, elegant and slightly uncomfortable.

The woman who had let her and her increasingly irritated companion in reappeared and offered them tea, also stating that Mr Holmes would be with them shortly. 

"Ridiculous!" Sir Edwin trumpeted. "How much longer does he expect us to wait?"

With an incredible amount of self-control Anthea avoided rolling her eyes as Mycroft's housekeeper left to put the kettle on.

"Good luck," said Mrs Jones, patting her employer on the shoulder. "They look a right pair of miseries."

Mycroft groaned but comforted himself with the knowledge that if his visitors were hostile ones, Musgrave was better equipped with weaponry and panic buttons than any nuclear bunker. That had been one of his retirement conditions. 

Bracing himself, Mycroft opened the door to the living room and walked inside.

"Excuse me, I was busy in the garden. Anthea?"

Anthea just sat there, stark staring dumbstruck. She couldn't believe the change in her former boss. He had grown a beard and ditched the contact lenses and was sporting a natty pair of tortoise shell glasses. Tatty gardening jeans and a tshirt showed he had gained a few beneficial pounds and also that he was more than comfortable in them. He looked relaxed and happy and it was killing her that she would be the one to take that away from him.

"Hello, sir. Sorry to drop unannounced like this."

Mycroft waved off her apology as he shook hands with a disgruntled Sir Edwin who had thus far been ignored.

Mycroft took a seat and Anthea smiled at the ease with which he did so. The surgery had been successful and that was a good thing to know.

"It's lovely to see you both. Mrs Jones will be in in a moment with tea and cake. Perhaps we can delay talking about what brings you here until she is otherwise occupied."

"Sterling idea, Holmes." said Sir Edwin. "This is really not for civilian ears."

"Would you like me to leave, perhaps?" Mycroft teased. "I am, after all, a civilian."

Anthea suppressed a giggle. Mr Holmes had never seen eye to eye with the 'crusty old walrus' as he called him and took every opportunity to display his far superior intelligence in the endless game of cat and mouse that was the world of MI6.

"Still rapier-sharp, I see. Good. You're going to need it." said Sir Edwin, just as Mrs Jones knocked and entered with a tray of tea and fresh home baking.

"Thank you," said Mycroft as she put the tray on the coffee table in the middle of the room. "Perhaps you would like to finish early today? "

Mrs Jones looked surprised but then her eyes narrowed.

"You in any danger, Mr Holmes? I reckon I could take out the old beardy one while you ring for backup. I'd leave the young lady for young Andrew to sort out though. She looks a handful."

Mycroft smiled, both at his housekeeper's show of support and the reactions of his two guests, a giggle and an outraged snort.

"Thank you, my dear Mrs Jones, but I am perfectly safe. Anthea used to be my personal assistant and Sir Edwin is performing my former role."

"Well, if you're sure, I'll take off now. I know you were planning a nice romantic evening anyway, so I'll be back late morning. Text me if anything changes."

"I will." Mycroft assured her. "Enjoy the rest of your day."

As the door closed behind Mrs Jones, Mycroft could practically see Anthea vibrating with curiosity.

"Romantic evening? Anything you want to share, sir?"

"Certainly not." Though there was a twinkle in Mycroft's eye that made Anthea guess that he was dying to tell someone. It would be a poorly-ordered universe if that someone wasn't her.

The sound of the Fiat's engine receding down the drive seemed to be the catalyst for Anthea and Sir Edwin to start discussing their real agenda.

"Tell me," said Mycroft.

Anthea looked to Sir Edwin who returned it pointedly and she allowed herself a sigh.

"Intelligence rounded up an ETA cell last week," she began, pausing for a sip of tea. "They found a coded hit list, sir, with your name at the top. All the chatter confirms that there is a price on your head. Again "

Mycroft snorted and stood up.

"There has rarely been a time when that  _ wasn't  _ the case. Hence my reason for retiring here where I could easily withstand an armoured siege. I am also aware that that is not the full extent of my protection. I've noticed at least three operatives in the village, heaven knows what they're teaching them in Intelligence these days. It's certainly not concealment. So why should I be concerned this time?"

"Well, Sir. Ricardo Valdez has escaped from prison and all the evidence suggests it's him who is after you."

Mycroft sat down abruptly, a ghost of pain flitting across his still-scarred flank where Valdez had come so close to ending his life. The only one who had come remotely close, a fiendishly clever man who had cursed Mycroft and vowed to have his revenge after being given multiple life sentences for his work with the cartels. It was indeed a credible threat, one Mycroft took seriously.

"After all these years," Mycroft mused. "So what, exactly, did you have in mind to neutralise this?"

"Protective custody. At least until Valdez is dealt with." Sir Edwin had decided to join the conversation.

Mycroft felt a wave of bitterness sweep through him. After everything he had been through; his attempts at starting afresh, away from all that nonsense, the absolute gift that was his growing love for Gregory Lestrade, all would vanish. And he would comply, no question. After all, Valdez had never been known for his compassion. There would be innocent victims in his thirst for revenge and Mycroft could not allow that. The thought of the members of the quartet or Mrs Jones or, God forbid, his Gregory cut down by automatic fire or slowly poisoned was not one he cared to contemplate. Not sober at any rate.

No, there would not be a happy ever after for Mycroft Holmes. He had been mad to think there could be.

"At least let me say my farewells to my partner. He is attending a hospital appointment at present but I cannot contemplate just disappearing from his life. He deserves better than that."

Sir Edwin looked utterly exasperated but Anthea was already tapping into her BlackBerry.

"Which hospital? I'll send Davison. To pick up whom?"

Mycroft wondered if his ears would ever recover from the screech Anthea made of pure happiness when he told her, something that seemed to exasperate Sir Edwin even more.

"Sir, I couldn't be happier for you. About bloody time too."

Before Mycroft could question  _ that  _ remark, his mobile rang.

His Gregory sounded extremely happy, though his comment about condoms and lube made Mycroft simultaneously delighted and happy he hadn't put the call on speaker. He hated that his words put a puncture in Greg's happy balloon but now was not the time to discuss that.

  
  


"Not on the phone. Get in the car that should be pulling up beside you about now. We'll talk when you get here." Mycroft stated and ended the call.

He slumped back in his chair and waited while Anthea and Sir Edwin talked in low tones about things he had no interest in.

Finally, Mycroft heard the closing of a car door outside and within minutes Greg was in the room, striding past the others as if they were statues to take Mycroft's hands in his and kiss him gently.

"You've got me worried, love. What's all this cloak and dagger stuff? Your ex-driver wouldn't tell me anything."

Before Mycroft could say a word Sir Edwin spoke.

"If he had, he would be prosecuted for breaking the Official Secrets Act, Mr Lestrade."

"Oh, it's you." said Greg flatly, grimacing as though he had a bad taste in his mouth. "And Anthea! Quite the reunion. Does anyone want to tell me what the fuck is going on?"

"Sit, Gregory." said Mycroft, drawing Greg down onto the sofa next to him. "They come with some dire news, my dear. My life is being threatened and they want me to go in to protective custody until the threat is neutralised."

"For how long?" Greg asked.

"Could be a week, could be much, much longer." said Anthea. "Given what a slippery bastard this is, I'd be going with the much longer option."

Greg looked at Mycroft, all the love and worry he felt for this incredible man right there in his warm brown eyes 

"Do you want to go?" Greg asked.

"No, I do not. I could leave Musgrave and the village without regret but the thought of leaving the man I love sickens me. You would not be able to come with me, my love. I would not place you in such danger."

"Then you stay and we protect you. Me, the lads at the station and half the Chamber of Commerce would see this bastard off if he ever showed his nose around here." said Greg firmly, looking with defiance at a bemused Anthea and a gobsmacked Sir Edwin. Then he turned again to Mycroft with the softest, most affectionate look on his face.

"Besides, unless my hearing is going, you just told us all that you love me. If you think for one second I'm letting you go  _ anywhere  _ without showing you how much I love you in return, in every fast and filthy way we can think of, then you're very much mistaken. I love you, Mycroft, with everything in me and until this bastard is caught I'm not letting you out of my sight, okay?"

A single tear trickled down Mycroft's cheek as he squeezed Greg's hands 

"Very much okay. I was beginning to think the perfect moment to tell you how I felt would never happen but to find my feelings reciprocated...I am speechless."

"That's rare," laughed Greg, brushing the dampness from Mycroft's cheek. "I don't think there's such a thing as the perfect moment, love, just the right one."

Mycroft smiled and let go of Greg's hands, turning to the others.

"You have probably surmised that I will not be accepting your offer of protective custody. However I would appreciate regular updates on the situation."

"Unacceptable." Sir Edwin replied. "We could make you come with us."

"I'd like to see you try," said Mycroft, his expression and tone lethal, reminding everyone in the room who had  _ actually  _ run the country for years and Greg felt his heart fill with pride.

"You heard him," Greg added.

*

Sir Edwin started ranting as soon as he got in the car to return to London.

"The arrogance of the man! Can you believe the depth of their hubris? If Holmes is not dead in a week, I'll be very surprised."

Anthea looked up from her BlackBerry and frowned.

"Personally I think you'll be very surprised. Greg will die before he lets anything happen to Mr Holmes and it sounds like he's not the only one. Shall I increase their surveillance levels?"

"Not too much. The Government isn't made of money you know."

"If anything happens to Mr Holmes because you're being a huffy tight-arse I want a front-row seat when you explain at great length to Her Majesty how it's all your fault."

Sir Edwin glared at her but she merely looked bored.

"Fine. Do what you must." he conceded.

Anthea nodded and remained silent for the rest of the trip.

  
  


TBC

  
  



End file.
